Wash My Hands Clean
by dreamsoflove311
Summary: Surely she had a breaking point? Surely one of these days she would be fed up with all of his games and vengeance. He had been so sure this was that moment. The moment she would wash her hands of him at last.


**A/N: Well, I suppose I could say this story contains spoilers for the season 4 premiere, but I highly doubt that this is how it will go. lol Part of what I love about this show is how it is (or the writers are) always unexpected. I think it will go one way, and it totally goes another. Regardless, just a short little speculation piece about how that scene from the promo between Jane and Lisbon in the jail could start. Of course I own nothing, and the lyrics are courtesy of Sara Bareilles. Hope you enjoy!**

"_Circus of silence down at our feet_

_Paper cut tigers starting to bleed._

_Hang from your tightrope above the mess_

_Just say you're sorry, no more, no less._

_Words you won't use, you don't feel them like I do._

_The show will be over soon_

_So if you see him, the man 'neath the mask,_

_Tell him I'm leaving and not looking back."_

He sat on the bench under the harsh fluorescent lights, head bowed. The metal table underneath his folded hands was cold and unforgiving. Strange that he felt more apprehension in this moment than he had throughout the past three days of handcuffs, questioning, and prison cells surrounded by criminals he'd helped to put away.

She was coming to see him. He was almost surprised, but it was just like her to come out of some misguided feeling of guilt. Although, far more likely that she was coming to let him know she wouldn't be getting him out of this one, that she'd meant the words she'd spoken a few years ago... _"If you succeed in doing violence to him, I'll arrest you..." _Well, she hadn't been the actual arresting officer, but Red John was still her case, and here he sat, Patrick Jane, in jail for murder.

The door clanked open and he heard her footsteps clicking purposefully across the room to where he sat. The light scent of cinnamon pervaded the stale air around him a moment before he felt the table shift as she sat opposite him. He took a deep breath-refused to think about the fact that it felt like the first real breath he'd taken since he'd gotten here. His fingertips cinched tighter together and he found that he couldn't look at her. It was best to go on the offensive right off the bat, he decided, get it over with.

"So, Lisbon, have you come to say, 'I told you so?'"

"What's that supposed to mean?" The startled offense in her tone overshadowed the ache of pleasure he felt at hearing her voice for the first time in days. His eyes flicked up to see hers narrowed in confusion. He allowed himself no more than a moment to drink in the sight of her.

"Well, you said you'd arrest me and here I sit. You were right."

She could not believe him. He thought she was here to do what exactly? Gloat? She might hate what he'd done, and she might hate how it made her feel, but she wasn't smug about it!

She'd vowed before coming in that she wasn't going to lose her temper...Oh well, she shouldn't have bothered, it _was _Jane after all.

"You think I'm happy about this?" Her suddenly angry tone drew his eyes to hers and held them there. "You think I like the idea of you sitting in a prison cell for the rest of our lives?"

"Well, this _is_ your brand of justice, Lisbon, isn't it? Murderers should be put away-"

"Ugh, this is so like you, Jane! Assuming you know everything. I mean, sure, am I glad you're in jail instead of dead at his hands? Of course I am!" It was unnecessary to clarify who's hands she meant. "But am I deriving some sort of pleasure from this? I can't believe you'd think that of me."

Silence fell and she took a deep breath. His eyes shifted away from her, back to the dull grey tabletop between them. Her brows drew together, he looked...different. If she was pressed to choose a word to describe him in this moment, she'd have to say that he looked almost _repentant. _But that couldn't be right...he was never repentant, and he certainly couldn't be sorry for doing what he'd always sworn he would...

Jane had the most confusing urge to apologize to Lisbon. Not for his wrongful assumption about why she'd come, but for everything else, for his being here in the first place, for what he'd done to be put here. But that was ridiculous, he couldn't be sorry for that.

He couldn't.

But he was.

He _was_ sorry, sorry for disappointing her. He knew she'd harbored hope that he might change his mind, that he wasn't a killer. He was sorry for dashing those hopes, and he was sorry for worrying her. She had been worried, he could see that now that he actually looked at her, she'd been worried about him.

When was she going to have had enough? Enough of the disappointment, the worry, the pointless hope, and neglected trust? At what point would she have had enough of _him_? Surely she had a breaking point? Surely one of these days she would be fed up with all of his games and vengeance. He had been so sure this was that moment. The moment she would wash her hands of him at last. He'd always thought that when he caught up to his nemesis, when he'd removed Red John from the world, when it was all over, that _they _would be over too. That she would want nothing more to do with him, he certainly wouldn't be deserving of her time and attention. Not that he really ever had been, come to think of it.

He wasn't sure how to react now that this didn't seem to be the case. He wanted to apologize, for assuming the worst about her intentions, for disappointing her, for worrying her, but he couldn't get the words out past the gratitude that was choking him. She was still here, she still _cared_, he hadn't lost her.

He met her eyes and leaned forward, one of his hands brushing hers for an instant. "How's your shoulder?"

It was as much of an apology as she was going to get from him, she knew.

"It's fine, just a graze. How are you doing in here?"

"As well as can be expected, you know, for being in jail."

The grin that turned up the corners of his lips felt strange, and it took him a minute to pinpoint why. He hadn't expected to ever again have any cause to smile. He'd always figured that the death of Red John would be accompanied by the loss of Lisbon, one way or another, be it by Red John's hands, or through the consequences of his own actions, and there was no cause for smiling in that. He wondered if maybe he should feel guilty for being happy, because he was-he realized-happy. God, he was ecstatic. He'd never thought he'd feel this again, never thought that he _should. _And just when the guilt threatened to overwhelm him, her lips quirked up and her dimples creased her cheeks.

Relief slammed into him, leaving no room for guilt or regret. He could still make her smile. Today was not the day she would leave him. He had no doubt it was still an inevitability, but not today, and not anytime in the immediate future, that much he could tell. He hadn't pushed her past that invisible point yet, and Christ, he was going to savor that knowledge. His smile widened almost imperceptibly and he reached for her hand again.


End file.
